The Legend of Zelda: The Legend's death
by Gordreg
Summary: The people of Hyrule have long trusted that, whenever evil rises, a Hero in green will emerge to beat it back. But when the Hero dies at their feet... Can the legend be rekindled a lie? Or will the death of the Hero allow evil a final, lasting victory?


The inn stood in the foothills of the mountain range, the vast granite peaks towering above the stone building and the surrounding hills on which it rested. These hills themselves loomed over the ancient lowland forest of the Lost Woods, a mysterious realm regarded with superstition, and where time was said to pass strangely. Maria, however, had never visited these woods, nor indeed had she visited any of the land to the west. Though Hylian by blood, all her immediate family that she knew of lived to the east, across the mountain range in the land of Holodrum. This was the closest that any of her line had been to their ancestral homeland for over ten generations, though Maria did not know this. All that she knew was it was far away enough from her family for her to at least suspend thoughts and worries of the marriage that she'd nearly been roped into, and had only just been able to escape.

Here, in the shaded darkness of the night, she lay back with her head on the pillow, trying to ignore the light sounds of snoring coming from the bunk above her. Debs, the young and self-sure waitress from Hyrule who occupied the bunk above Maria's head had told her that she'd be able to ignore the snores within a week, though Maria was not in the least convinced. Debs was a new arrival, a lone traveller across the mountains who had decided not to cross in the middle of winter's fury, and instead to wait for the snows to cease before risking the crossing. A wise decision in Maria's eyes, for that was what she would have done herself had she not already passed through the narrow, winding passages of the mountain range to the comparative safety of the high hills.

Maria had been here a month already, arriving at the door of the inn a few days before the winds had turned cold, and the mountain winter had began. The inn had been busy preparing itself for the upcoming winter at the time, and had needed extra hands to support overworked chamber and kitchen staff. Maria's pockets had been almost empty of Rupees at the time, so the offer had seemed to good to pass over. With a season's worth of wages in her pockets, starting a new life in a distant country would be a whole lot easier when she finally arrived. As she thought of the far country and what she'd do when she reached there, her eyes slowly closed as images began to shift through her increasingly dormant mind. A slight moan escaped from between her lips, followed only by the peaceful noise of a sleeper gently breathing.

Here however, on the side of a narrow pass climbing high above the forest and far below the inn, where the road from Hyrule wound slowly up the hillside along a narrow, zigzagging track… here was where the man was, walking quickly up the winding pathway. He had walked for many days now, but he had slept little and eaten less throughout the long journey. The cloak, which he wrapped tightly about his body to keep out the chill of the night winds, was ragged and torn, cut in multiple places by multiple blades, with stains of blood splattered over areas of brown cloth. Over the cloak he wore a quiver, tied to which was a bow - long, curved and smooth, well crafted from the finest deku wood. Beneath his cloak something bulged on his back, a hidden object that, when the moonlight was in the right place and the man standing upright, resembled the form of a sword through the coarse goat hair fabric. The man himself was slender, his face obscured by the cloak's darkness, but with bright blue eyes shining out from under the hood. On his feet the man wore thin leather shoes bound to his feet by a single buckle, beneath which white-stockinged legs disappeared into the encompassing folds of his cloak.

The man strode briskly forwards along the path, stumbling every few paces, his cloak covered head turning from time to time to look back, into the darkness. The darkness of the path behind him, where even now his pursuers were following him. Every so often his pointed ears twitched as he heard their sounds in the distance, from the heavy snorting of the creatures themselves to the howling of their accompanying Wolfos. But he could not linger and fight them, not here. The ache of the poison flooded his system, to act in haste would speed the spread of the toxin. And he could not die before his task was completed….

The mid-day sun rose high above the Coaching inn, the large and sturdy structure built to survive the worst that the mountains in winter could throw at it. The sign hanging above the doorway proclaimed the Inn's name as 'The Green Man', and the picture painted onto the wood of the sign showed a representation of this ancient figure of Hylian legend. A youthful looking man watched out from the picture with blue staring eyes, in one hand carrying a fierce looking sword sparkling with light, and in the other holding aloft a Shield bearing the emblem of the Gods themselves, the triangle of three parts - The holy emblem of the Triforce. It was said in whispered tones that this man had been a Hero of legend, a destined by the Gods themselves. Champion of Farore, the Goddess of Life, he appeared in ancient tales as if from nowhere with sword in hand, to cast down Monsters, Villains and Tyrants, and to restore the spirit of justice to the troubled land. He appeared in so many different tales however, in so many different guises, and at so many reported different times in history that few reckoned he had ever existed, and that his tales had merely been stories which had drifted first into folklore, then ultimately into legend itself.

Inside the Inn the bar and kitchen were both bustling, and Maria was busy serving. The pay wasn't exactly good, but lodgings were provided and meals were free, more then making up for the hours she was expected to put in. Some of the older maids had whispered of a way to earn extra money during the later shifts, but had then rather spoiled the whole effect by winking and giggling to her, giving her the definite impression that it might be something it was better off she didn't take part in.

She weaved between the tables, one dish balanced precariously in each hand as she made her way to the far end of the bar, before putting down the dishes on the Table nearest to the fireplace. Ordinarily she would have asked the customers sitting at the table who had ordered which dish - but in this case it was rather obvious. The large, rock-skinned Goron man slowly turned to her and smiled, before picking a pebble from the plate in front of him, and biting it in half with his diamond hard teeth. His companion, an unruly and ugly Pig-faced barbarian, turned towards her and snorted, but his nostrils twitched with anticipation as the scented aroma of his roast Cucco wafted upwards from the plate. Within a few seconds he too was heartily tucking into his food, thin dribbles of slobber running down his jowls. Maria sighed with relief - she had fully been expecting the Moblin to cause problems, though thankfully he hadn't created any yet. Perhaps his Goron companion was keeping him under control…

Swerving aside, she passed between another pair of tables - one where a lone Farmer sat, nursing a single beer with his face slumped in his hands, the other crowded with a group of rowdy Deku scrub merchants - over to a large table where a family sat, having just finished their meal. Hylians, like herself, and the third family she'd seen this weak. Normally it was only travelling merchants and traders who stopped at the inn, aside from the local hill farmers of course, but the number of other types of people she'd seen in recent weeks had increased dramatically. Families, debutantes, old men and women… perhaps the rumours were indeed true, and people were fleeing over the mountains in large numbers. There had been tales of a new king on the throne of Hyrule for some time, but she hadn't given them any thought before. Picking the empty plates from the table, she thanked the Hylians for their custom before walking off again, carrying them back to the kitchen in her hands.

"Table seventeen's done." she announced upon her return, placing the empty plates down by the sink where they were piling up. "Table fifteen looked close to finishing as well, so I'll clear them after I've delivered Twelve's order. It is nearly ready, right?"

The chef, a large, bearded man in his late forties who was at this moment stirring a pot of boiling soup, looked up to her and sighed, rolling his eyes as he did so. "You're too late, Miss Maria." he stated from between mangy rows of teeth, blackened and ruined by many years of sampling his own cooking. "Olama's already serving that. Seemed like the best person to do so. Perhaps you could wash a few plates for me until the order for table two is ready? Goddess knows how they got so messy in the first place…"

Maria nodded, and walked quietly over to the sink, before immersing her hands into the soapy water with a plate in one and a cloth in the other. The slender, pale-blue skinned Zora girl would indeed have been the most appropriate person to serve food to her own kind, even if she was usually a little on the shy side. The soaking cloth in Maria's hand wiped around the edges plate, sweeping dirt and grease from the china surface in a tide of soap and bubbles…

Outside, the man paced slowly past the inn, the thin layer of snow crunching beneath his feet as he continued upwards on the trail that would take him across the mountains. Tempted for a second, he looked up into the swinging, snow - speckled sign above the doorway, and was swiftly reminded of his duty. As much as he would have liked to have stopped, and spent the night in comfort… he could not. Not only would it delay him on his mission, but he would make the people inside targets by being near them. And that was something he did not want to happen.

Tearing himself away from the inn, the man continued walking up the snow-lined path, further up into the mountains.

Much of the day had passed, a normal day by all accounts for the people residing in 'The Green Man'. No one had left or arrived this day, and Maria doubted that any would due to the snowfall. Anyone trying to cross the mountains in this weather would be asking for a quick path to an early grave. In the kitchen she was now occupied in chopping carrots, helping the chef to prepare for this evening's meal. Her day had mostly involved cleaning the guestrooms and changing the bedclothes, but now with a whole inn full of hungry guests awaiting their evening meal she, along with many of the other employees, had been roped into helping. Her fingers were now sore, but the delicious smell made up for it. Besides, once this meal was finished serving then they would get their own diners, and not long afterwards would be able to call it a day barring any major mishaps.

Outside, a droplet of warm drool hit the crisp snow, melting the settled flakes for a few seconds before both it and they succumbed again to winter's icy touch. The creature snorted as its two charges strained at their leashes, franticly snarling as they followed the scent left by the man they were chasing. A vicious pair of forest Wolfos, their grey coats marked them out from both the powder white hillside and their larger, white-coated cousins which roamed these uplands. The creature holding onto them disliked his charges with a vengeance, generations of fear and loathing that had existed since before the first Moblin ever rose up onto the hind feet, driving a wedge between the species that had only been overcome through a greater fear. That greater fear walked behind them now, inexorable footsteps of the great armoured behemoth that crushed the snow wherever it stood into instant icy submission. Though not yet drawn, it carried a blade fully the size of a Hylian, and was able to wield it with but a single hand. The helmet which covered its face was clearly marked with two side-pointing horns, welded on to the sides to inspire a greater fear in all opponents, though none was needed. For the creatures own face was that of a snarling canine. An Elite warrior from a martial society of Elite warriors, an Armoured Dog-Man loyal to its masters, and Merciless to its foes. A Darknut.

The Darknut was restless. Each and every day of this march had seen the scent of its prey slowly weaken as he put yet more distance between himself and the pursuing forces. If this continued, they would have lost the scent before the week was out - and then they would have to explain their failure to their master. And their master was not one likely to tolerate failure in its minions…

The Darknut shook its head and helmet, and snarled, a thick cloud of warm breath billowing into the air from the gap at the front of the helm. No, continued pursuit was no longer an option, they had to force their quarry to turn and face them, and they had to do it now, while the option remained. If the Wolfos could still smell the scent of their prey in this frigid air, it was likely that he was not too far still. Far enough to know what his chasers were up to. A calculating sneer slipped over the canine features of the Darknut, and it halted in its tracks, ordering the rest of his group to do so as well with a single, snarling order of "HALT!". Almost to a Boar, the Moblins turned, and looked to their leader to hear what he planned to say next. The Darknut, eyes glinting bright with malice, reached to unsheathe the might sword it carried, before giving it an experimental swing to get a feel of the balance again in his frostbitten fingers. Satisfied, It raised the sword again, and with it pointed towards the Inn that was just visible through the falling snow.

"We go there!" it ordered with a bark. "We will seize that place, and hold the throats of those inside to our blades until our quarry turns to face us in battle. And when he does so, as I have no doubts he will - then we get to complete our mission, and earn favour from the master. And…" it added, pausing for effect "… with the inn in our possession, we will be both well fed and warm until the snows clear again and we leave to report our success. Now, move!" it shouted, pressing the Moblins forwards through the crisp snow. As they began to move forwards, the Moblin holding the leashes of the Wolfos dropped them from his fingers, letting them whip freely about in the snow as the Wolfos bounded off into the distance, free at last…

The hoofed legs of the Moblins at the front were almost dainty, thin stalks that somehow kept the weight of the pig like creatures above the snow and left only minute holes to show their steps. Where the Darknut walked, however, all snow and vegetation were crushed into submission beneath the weight of the creature's iron boots and armoured plates. The Darknut, moving as if a juggernaut of steel and flesh, pushed through the crowd of followers as they neared the main door to the structure. With its free hand, the dark nut reached fourth, ad gripped the handle of the door tightly. And then it pressed down, and pushed, forcing the door to swing inwards, carrying with it a wind laden down by weight of ice. In the hallway, a young guest screamed with surprise and alarm, and fled for her life back towards the Bar…

Above the inn, on the next stage of the long and slowly zigzagging path up the mountainside, the man halted in his tracks as his pointed ears twitched. A scream, muffled, but definite, had just rung out across the snow and up the mountainside to him. He paused for a second, halting completely in his tracks as he listened into the winds. And his listening bore fruit when another scream joined the first on the breeze, followed swiftly by a third wail of panic and then many more, as if a terrible fear had seized a complete community.

A terrible fear that was only slightly further behind him now then his pursuers had been at the beginning of the day. Realizing instantly what must have occurred, and the mistaken choice he had made, the man cursed silently under his breath, and then ran to the side of the path, looking down through the trees growing on the steep incline of the slope. A difficult slope - but not an impossible one. The man leapt over the edge, and began to swiftly race down the steep incline as fast as he could manage. Ignoring the incline and the chill of the bitter wind in his face, the man bounded from surface to surface in his descent, from exposed rock to fallen tree then to open snow-covered land as he shot through the vision obscuring snow, down towards where the screams had come from.

There had been no significant resistance from the staff of the inn, and now they were all herded, together with the guests, into the corner of the dining room. Three of the Moblins stood guard, their spears pointed towards the prisoners who were tightly packed - Hylians pressed against the rugged hide of the Goron visitor, The wooden skin of Deku scrubs squished against the damp flesh of Zoras. Even the Moblin companion of the Goron had been herded into the crowd of captives, and as a result

was seething with anger and frustration towards those of his kindred who had caught him weaponless and surprised. Drool was dripping from his mouth down his chin, and Maria squirmed silently as she felt it drip onto her arm. She wriggled uncomfortably in the tight huddle, pressing against the other bodies all around her as she tried to make a little room for herself. The attack had come when she had been just about to head off duty, and as a result she had not had a chance to visit the latrine. Consequently, she was feeling very uncomfortable with the situation both inside as well as outside, but had just about forced herself to hold on. Not that she could keep it up forever… hopefully the creatures would leave - or at least allow their captives to move before she burst.

In front of the group, and on the floor, the Cook gurgled. He had been the only person in the inn to attempt to stand up to the attackers, and one of the Moblins bore a brand new wound deep along his arm left by a heavy kitchen knife as a result. But retaliation had been swift, and the cook was now covered with a number of large bruises and small wounds where the Moblin had mercilessly beaten him. His face was swollen, and one of his eyes was closed, the eyelid puffy. His nose was broken and bloodied, and his lip cut and bleeding. His other eyelid flickered as he hung between consciousness and unconsciousness. "Mrufruurr…" he mumbled incoherently from where he lay, a thin trail of drool running over his chin as he tried to speak. "Smurrr… hrooo drrrrffft mstrrrrss…"

A Moblin snorted with laughter, and poked the cook again with the butt of his spear's haft, watching the man squirm. The other Moblins snickered as the man whimpered with pain, their grunting laughter filling the room. And the other prisoners were helpless to help him out, herded as they were into the corner by the spears of the Moblins. Several were whimpering in fear, others making silent prayer to the Goddesses for protection. The Bartender was in earnest whispered discussion with the Inn's manager about what they should be doing, while the Goron was doing his best to prevent his companion from launching a suicidal attack, his rocky arms literally holding the Moblin back.

The Bokoblins ignored the prisoners, they had been granted the first shift off duty and were busy making the most of it. Their shrill voices crackled as they raised the expensive bottles of wine to their lips, drinking quickly from the bottles themselves, and spilling more onto the floor then they managed to pour down their throats as they guzzled at the rich pickings they had stumbled onto.

And the Darknut was laughing as it strolled around the tables, in one hand clutching a half-eaten leg of beef, and in the other a flagon of Lon Lon ale that it had taken a mere few sips from. Gone were his worries, even if their quarry didn't show then they could still hold this place for the winter, devouring the larders of the well provisioned inn and forcing the inhabitants into servitude. Why, by the dawn of spring he could be in firm control of the mountain pass, and that would do a great deal to relieve any failure in catching their quarry. Not that they would really have needed to catch him anyway, the poison which had infected his wound from a Lizalfol arrow would leave him dead by the onset of spring, if the mountains didn't kill him first. The rumours of an antidote in the land of Holodrum had been a mere fabrication by his master, a way of persuading their quarry to waste time while it took hold rather then using his last hours to bring vengeance…

His thoughts of triumph were interrupted by the sound of wood hitting wood as hinges creaked, and a blast of cold air from outside struck through the inn.

The Darknut and the Moblins turned at the sound, and even at spear point the customers of the bar followed their gaze. There, in the now open doorway where the bitter winds of winter were making yet another dramatic entrance into the warmth of the inn… there in the doorway stood a cloaked figure, almost motionless as he assessed the situation. The nearest Moblin grinned, turning his spear away from the cluster of prisoners, and towards the new arrival. He paced on his trotters across the wooden panelled floor, a leering grin upon his wide mouth, and with piggy eyes fixed on the mysterious new arrival. Lowering his spear until it was almost touching the stranger's neck, the Moblin leant forwards, and opened his mouth to speak, his rank breath boiling from out of his throat and into the swordsman's face.

"Alright, you. Get in 'ere an… Glurk!"

The Moblin blinked as the stranger withdrew his sword from his chest, before toppling over, hitting the floor with a loud thump. The stranger reached briefly upwards, before throwing his cloak from his shoulder and into the face of a Bokoblin that had been creeping up on him. Beneath the cloak his outfit was as green as the purest emerald, a tunic covering his chest and hips while a same-coloured floppy hat clung to his head. The Man lifted his head, his bright blue eyes sparkling in the firelight as his thin, handsome face became visible, his blonde hair slowly settling into position. The sword, now covered in Moblin blood, seemed to sparkle underneath despite the gore that covered the surface, and caught the light even as the swordsman raised it again. The onlookers from the inn stared in disbelief as almost to a being they recognised the swordsman. Aside from a few minor details, this man was an almost perfect duplicate of the man who gazed from out of the sign that flapped above the doorway. This, they recognised, was clearly the Green man himself, stepping forwards from the ancient tales to come to the aid of those in peril…

The Darknut seemed to recognise this as well, and snarled, barking out "Get him!" to his band of troops. The darknut's band turned to face the swordsman, raising their weapons in anger…

Stepping forwards, The Green clothed man thrust his sword with grace and finesse through the chest of a Bokoblin, spilling the puny creature's crimson blood onto the floor even as it collapsed into spasms. Quickly withdrawing the sword from the creature, it arced around through the air in a glimmering loop before beheading another of the Bokoblin companions, cutting cleanly through the neck and causing the blinking face of the Bokoblin to roll across the floor and under a table. The man's ears twitched as the other Moblins roared, and charged at him from the right with three spears pointed towards him. Just before the spear tips could touch him he back-flipped, jumping in reverse from the floor up onto a table in the corner, his sword held out and slashing to parry the thrusting spears even as they tried to drive him back. He caught them on the edge of his sword one at a time, turning them aside with the shimmering length of his blade and away, creating a gap between the three bristling points which he could jump from the table and land in with ease. Inside the range of the spears his blade sparkled in an arc as it bought death to the Moblins in one great sweep, then continuing around in a backwards thrust behind the swordsman, disemboweling the Bokoblin who had been sneaking up on him. The last Bokoblin took a quick glance around the inn, and his eyes widened with terror as he saw his companions all dead upon the floor. Fear overcoming its simple mind, the Bokoblin bolted for the door the swordsman had come through. The green-garbed man drew his bow in the space of one heartbeat, strung it in the space of another, and released the arrow which cut through the air before piercing the back of the Bokoblin's skull, causing it to slump over and fall to the ground, twitching in the final throws of death.

A murmur went through the crowd of the inn, a crowd which had slowly started to expand out of the cramped corner since the death of all the Moblins. Could this truly be the Hero in Green himself, rising again as if out of the ancient tales, returned to strike down the evil pervading their hostelry? Certainly the majority seemed to think so, their belief in the ancient legend renewed and refreshed by this unexpected appearance. Even the few doubters of the legend were talking with awe about the man, he had just defeated all the Moblins and Bokoblins in only a little over a minute of time, after all.

The Darknut was now seething with anger. This man, one single Hylian, had just wiped out all of his patrol in the time taken to down a flagon of ale! His canine face snarling with rage, the Darknut reached for his weapon. With a hiss of steel the sword left its scabbard, and the crowd took a step back as if with one mind. The blade was larger then many of their number, after all. Best not to get too close to the brute who would be swinging it about…

But the Man in Green was undaunted, and unafraid. His sword firmly in his hand, he raced forward, and parried the initial swing of the massive weapon. His own sword thrust forwards, but the Darknut blocked this thrust with ease and followed up by knocking the Swordsman aside, forcing him into a roll to avoid the lethal weapon. Chairs clattered away as the rolling swordsman upended them, chairs which a scant few seconds later were reduced to matchwood by the arcing blade of the Darknut. The swordsman rolled under a large table and it was here that the blade stopped, biting deep into the ancient timbers but slowing to a halt as it did so. The Darknut cursed, and tugged at its blade to free it from the wooden prison - and as he did so, the Man in Green took advantage, jumping up from the roll behind the Darknut and slashing vertically with his glimmering blade. The cut severed the threads holding the plating to the chest of the canine beast's chest, and the Steel plates slumped forwards, hitting the floor of the inn with a mighty clang that caused all the cutlery on the tables to Vibrate. But the Darknut was not finished yet, and the creature finally pulled the blade from the table, cutting through the air like a scythe, the man in green only just managing to parry the blade, the force of the impact knocking the Swordsman tumbling backwards across the room.

Dizzy, his heart was beating fast now, his lungs almost wheezing as they were slowly dragged beyond repair by the poison that was now ravaging his system. He could already feel his left side going numb as the toxin went to work more quickly on his system, his movements becoming more sluggish with every pace. And the Darknut was advancing again, quickly now, the Snarling canine face hungry for victory. The sword danced as it attacked again with another thrust, forcing the swordsman back further, almost to the edge of the crowded inn workers. The swordsman was tiring now, each parrying sweep of his blade harder to make. The swordsman stumbled, dropping almost to the floor, and with a howl of triumph the Darknut raised his sword above the man in green. The Swordsman's eyes narrowed, and with one last burst of effort he thrust forwards. His blade seemed to glint with the power of gold for a second, and it struck true, into the chest of the Darknut. The Darknut froze mid-howl, and slowly toppled backwards with the sword still piercing its furry chest, dead. And the Swordsman, his adrenaline spent, collapsed with it onto the floor, his heart finally shutting down as the toxin raveged the last of his system.

The crowd inched slowly forwards, not daring to believe that the Darknut was dead - and hoping that the Swordsman had not shared the creatures fate. The Innkeeper carefully walked over to where the mighty creature had fallen, and bent down to check its pulse. It was dead, of that there could be no doubt. But as to the hero of legend - for surely, it must have been him, the people thought - when Maria bent down, and slowly touched his arm to read his own heartbeat, all that she found was the slowly cooling touch of his pale flesh. Her blue eyes began brimming with tears, and all around her the people shared her somber mood. For today, defending their inn, the people had witnessed the death of a legend. The Hero in green was dead at their feet.

Slowly, the inn began to return to normal. Despite the treacherous interlude and the death of the man in green, there were still mouths to be fed and beds to be made, and a winter to be sat out. And sit it out the people did, though their gossip frequently turned back to the attack, and the death of their savior. What, they wondered, had he been in the area to do? Had his journey to the inn been only to drive off the Darknut and his band, or had it been part of some larger enterprise?

The body of the hero in green was left to lie in the cold for the week, until he was finally buried in a freshly dug grave at the weekend, a plain gravestone baring nothing but the crest of the Triforce itself to mark his final resting place. But although he was supposed to have been buried with all his equipment, to face the next life with all the courage he had shown in this one - when the day finally came for him to be buried, the manager of the inn was quick to discover that the Hero's sword was missing. But he said nothing, and allowed the prayers to be said to the golden three. Then earth was shoveled hastilyover the body of the hero, covering it forever beneath the soil of the hillside.

And in a little-used room, hidden under the stairwell between floors, a sword lay wedged between two boxes, covered with an old and ragged sheet. But even hidden and covered, and with no-one to see it apart from the one who had saved it from the earth, the sword still seemed to shine with an inner, goldenlight of its own…


End file.
